Lord of the City
by Giaans
Summary: The Lord of the City is back to claim his rightful throne. Will King Orestes be able to resist his attempts? Or will the rightful ruler be distracted by the most tempting weakness on earth? RECENTLY UPDATED! Please r & r. This might take some time.
1. Prologue Part I

**Disclaimer: I do not own Troy. I wish I did! And Achilles! ) But sadly, those are the property of history, Homer and other poets long before me, and Mr. Wolfgang Petersen and his crew. I am simply one more person who is taking their ideas and forming my own fantasy from them. In other words, some characters... MOST characters are borrowed from pre-existing mythology, but most of their story is my creation and not what was supposed to have happened in mythology. In fact, if you try to match timelines, family lines, or any other lines, I can assure you that several discrepencies will pop up! But that's the charm of fanfiction... it's FICTION and therefore is completely made up! )**

**Author's Note: The beginning of this story occurs towards the end of the movie, Troy, right after Achilles's death and before Odysseus's scene at the funeral pyre. It focuses on Briseis and the other Trojans who fled from Troy, but the rest of the story is about the second-generation as you will soon find out. Hopefully, you will like the characters as much as I love them. Any feedback would be absolutely appreciated! And desperately needed.**

**Seriously, there is nothing more needed than feedback for me! ) And on that note... **

**Prologue**

The night was merciless. In the distance, the sound of battle rang clear as the calls of a predator bird. The wind cackled and burned with the flames consuming the blue sky, carrying with it the smell of burnt flesh and death. Screams surrounded the night, the ring of blade and flesh overpowered existence. Briseis's senses shook with an overwhelming rush of emotions but her body was alarmingly still, her mind a blank backdrop to the blood and gore of the war tearing through her home.

"Briseis! Briseis, for God's sake, look at me!"

She turned, her eyes focusing on the gentle face of her cousin. Her mind registered the worry in his clear blue eyes, the fear chiseled into the lines beside his frowning lips, but emotions no longer made sense to her.

"Briseis, please forget him," he whispered to her. He dropped his bow to the ground with a solid thunk that vibrated through her ears. She gulped, feeling him take a hold of her shoulders. He shook her but there was no break to her stupor.

"He is gone, cousin," Paris told her. "He is dead—"

_Is that Achilles? The son of Peleus and Thetis—the great warrior of Greece. He cannot be dead—it is impossible!_

"He can't be dead, Paris," Briseis replied, staring straight through his eyes. The soldiers' words rang through her ears, infinitely more coherent than her cousin's. "The great warrior of Greece can never die."

"He killed your cousin, Briseis!" Paris's voice rang through the empty courtyard. His grip tightened on her arms. "Have you forgotten our beloved Hector?"

"He cannot be dead," Briseis whispered, shaking her head slightly. "He simply cannot—"

"Bri," Paris sighed, pulling her to him. He held her head against his chest, embracing her with a fierceness so full of pain and regret that Briseis felt it to her core. "I would have killed myself before killing your love, cousin. But your love was placed in the wrong man—the wrong _demon_."

Briseis suddenly pushed him away and slapped him. "Achilles may have been a demon for taking a sword to your brother, Paris, but you are the true reason Hector died. You are the true reason for all these deaths and you know it!"

Paris stared at her, his hands fisted at his sides. Somewhere in the back of her mind, Briseis knew she had hurt him than any mortal wound ever could. She knew that she was breaking her dear cousin to pieces with her words, but they were true words, and by God, if she had to take her rage out at someone, it might as well be the one person who was responsible for all the pain in her life and in everyone else's as well. "What were you thinking?" She shook her head, all the venom in her body hissing through her words. "Love is meant to bring joy to life, Paris, not death and blood. You tasted the euphoria of love, you lost yourself to your dreams, but how _dare_ you forget that behind every dream is a reality? How _dare_ you forget your people who look up to you for guidance and protection? And now a thousand ships have been launched against them, a thousand warriors thirsting for their blood and a thousand loved ones lost to blades of greed and lust. Look there!" She waved towards the flames crawling up the towers of troy. "Can you hear them, Paris? They are being forced to kill good men, they are being forced to give their own lives, and they are suffering! Blood rolls through Troy from their bodies and grief! Grief so horrible that it's tearing at their souls, Paris—tearing at my soul!"

She stopped suddenly, feeling something dull slicing through her heart. "Achilles is dead," she whispered, the words barely slipping from her tongue. "And you know what the greatest tragedy of this war is, Paris?" She remembered Achlles's face that night. "There was nothing in his life that he regretted more than his compulsion to kill Hector. Nothing."

There was a ringing in Briseis's ears as she stood there, staring at her cousin. She was shaking like an autumn leaf caught in the wind. Her throat stung with unshed tears. Paris was looking at the ground, his jaw rigid. Finally, he looked up at her and there was a glint of tears in his eyes. He gulped several times, then said, "Follow the path behind you. Find Andromache and get to safety."

He slowly leaned down and picked up his bow. Then, without a glance back, he turned around and walked into the tunnel leading back to the Trojan caslte, to the mad heat of battle. Briseis watched him leave, her nails digging into her palms. She didn't know how long she remained standing there until suddenly… _Dear Zeus, what have I done?!_

"Paris," Briseis called, running toward the tunnel. "Paris--!"

"Briseis!"

She turned around to find Andromache standing at the entrance to the passage Paris had brought her to. Behind her stood Helen carrying Andromache's son, a joyful smile on her fair face.

"H-Helen," Briseis whispered.

"Thank God we heard your voice—Oh, Bri, we thought we lost you—" Andromache and Helen both ran forward and hugged her. "You weren't in your room when the—and I couldn't find you anywhere, I was so worried! Where's Paris?"

"I-I—" Briseis felt something wedge in her throat and blinked back tears. "He's gone back to battle!" She turned to Helen. "I-I'm sorry—"

"That was his decision," Andromache cut her off with a slight quiver to her voice. Helen's eyes dropped to the ground. "Come, we must leave quickly!"

Briseis felt her cousin's hand wrap around her wrist with startling strength as she pulled her into the tunnel behind her. "The citizens are far ahead of us and we must catch up to them quickly—it is far safer for us to remain in a large group."

"What of Uncle Priam?" Briseis asked her, stumbling slightly on the edges of her skirt. She reached down and held her skirt high over her knees. Her elbows grazed against the rough walls of the tunnel, but she hurried on frantically behind Andromache, Helen behind her.

"He's… gone, I'm afraid," Andromache replied, without turning back.

Briseis sighed, nodding softly in the darkness.

"Wait—what was that?!"

Briseis stopped at Helen's voice, turning around. In the silence, they could hear a faint echo coming down the tunnel. "Greek men!" Briseis gasped. "Run!"

She grabbed Helen, pushing her and the baby ahead of herself and fled down the tunnel behind them. "Quietly," Andromache whispered. "We're almost there—!"

"Can you hear that—sounds like footsteps! I think there's someone in here!"

Briseis gasped at the voice, turning around to see the faint glow of fire far behind them. Suddenly, her foot caught on a rough stone and she fell to the ground. She bit her lip against the cry that threatened to break through her lips. Her right leg seemed to vibrate painfully from the impact. Ahead of her, Helen and Andromache stopped.

"Bri!" Helen rushed towards her. She leaned down, extending her hand towards Briseis, but the motion stirred the sleeping baby who awoke with a resounding protest. Briseis groaned.

"No, my love, shh!" Andromache whispered, taking the baby from Helen's arms in an attempt to calm him, but the damage was already done.

"There's people in here—come on!"

Briseis grabbed a hold of Helen's hand and pulled herself up to her throbbing feet. "Go!" She shouted, practically pushing Helen on. She heard footsteps behind her, ringing so loudly. She saw the glow of the torch basking over the walls on either side of her. The men were were almost on top of them. In her mind, she began a frantic prayer to Apollo, begging him to save them.

Suddenly, a hand reached towards her and for the second time, she stumbled to the ground. She heard Andromache shout out her name over the cries of her baby. Briseis's eyes were stinging with tears as she flayed wildly against the hand and scrambled forward on all fours.

"You will _not_ touch her!" Andromache and Helen both stepped past her, their figures shading the firelight from Briseis. She turned onto her back and saw them standing resolutely between her and the men.

"Helen… and Lady Andromache!"

Briseis froze. She knew that voice.

"M'lord, that is Hector's heir," a second voice spoke.

Andromache turned away slightly from the men, clutching the baby to her bossom. "You will have to kill me before you touch this babe."

"At your orders, my lord!"

"No!" Briseis gasped, rising to her feet. She shoved her way in between Helen and Andromache to face the men. "You will not touch them, Odysseus."

King Odysseus of Ithaca looked as though he had been slapped in the face. There was a glimmer of relief… or happiness in his eye as he looked at the woman before him. "Briseis, you're alive!"

The torch in his hand cackled slightly. Behind her, Briseis heard Andromache whispering her baby into silence. She straightened her shoulders and looked at him straight in the eye. "You will let these women go," she told him. She did not know what confidence she had to give such a blunt order, but she swore to Apollo that she would die before she let any harm come to either Andromache, Helen, or the babe.

"My lord, I can finish them all with a single blow," Odysseus's man stepped towards them slightly, his hand on his hilt.

"Stop!" Two voices cried at once. Odysseus grabbed the man by his collar and pushed him back. "Keep your sword in its sheath or you will be the first to die here."

Briseis looked at Odysseus, her breath catching in her throat slightly. Could it be that Apollo had heard her prayer? Odysseus threw the torch to his man and turned around again, his face thrown into shadows. "You cannot leave," he whispered.

"She must!" Andromache replied. "Troy is burning and we are in danger—"

"Achilles will destroy the world if he thinks you are dead, you _cannot_ leave, Briseis," Odysseus spoke over her, leaning towards Briseis urgently. Briseis felt her stomach drop as she stared into his face. Something was gripping at her throat, restricting her from speaking or breathing. "He searches for you all over the kingdom. Come with me now, and I can assure you that no harm will come to you. You will receive safe passage from Troy, Briseis—"

"Safe passage to the Underworld, Odysseus?" Briseis whispered so softly that she herself could not hear what she said. Odysseus stopped, a frown wrinkling his kind face.

"The Underworld?"

"The world would be in danger of destruction, were it not for the death of Achilles."

"Wha—?" Odysseus jerked his head back slightly. In the chisled shadows of the torch, Briseis could see the shock on his face. "What are you talking about?"

"Achilles is dead, Odysseus," Briseis told him, her voice incredibly steady. "His body lays before the statue of Apollo."

"Oh, God," Odysseus gasped, his hand coming up to his forehead. He dropped it jerkily, his other fist tightening around the hilt of his sword at his waist. Briseis's eyes followed the motion, her heart beating a breath faster.

"He died trying to save from Agamemnon's men," she said, "If you touch Andromache or Helen or the babe, you will also have to kill me. Please do not let Achilles's death be in vain."

Odysseus looked up, his hand suddenly letting go of his sword. He took several steps away from Briseis, his eyes wandering around the tunnel in shock. After several minutes of silence, he finally said, "I would have cut my own throat before thinking of hurting you, Briseis." He looked up, his eyes fixing on the baby. "And if it means I must sacrifice the end to this madness to honor Achilles's death, then so be it."

"My lord!" His men gasped behind him.

Odysseus ignored his protest and stepped forward. "Go and hide yourself thoroughly from this war." He looked to Andromache and Helen. "If you are caught by the Greek, you will not be shown any mercy. May the Gods be with you."

Briseis felt something break inside her. She bit her lip, closing her throat against the waves of pain crashing through her. Behind her, she heard Helen say, "Of all the kings of Greece, Lord Odysseus, you are by far the kindest. The Gods will smile upon you in life and death."

Odysseus nodded towards her, then at Briseis. She tried to smile, but couldn't manage it. So, she simply nodded back, and turned away. May the Gods be with them all.


	2. Prologue Part II

Briseis stumbled onto the clearing to see hundreds of women, men and children huddling to each other in the chill of the evening breeze. The air was filled with tension and grief as sobbed among themselves. They looked towards them with feeble eyes, the sight of their queen Andromache squeezing traces of hope into their defeated bodies. Briseis turned to her cousin to see her look back at them with tearful eyes. Unable to hold their gazes for long, she turned away quickly, clearing her throat. "Come here," she took a hold of Briseis's hand and sat her down against a rock. Helen sat down beside her, her eyes drooping with fatigue and sadness. "I need to go and… f-find some food or something," Andromache turned, hiding the wetness of her cheeks, and walked away from them.

"Let me look at your foot," Helen gently pushed up Briseis's skirts and turned her ankle this way and that in the feeble light of the torches burning around the camp. Briseis winced, looking at the blue-purple swelling around her ankle.

"Do you think it is broken?"

"Does it feel like the chariot of Apollo is resting on your foot?" Helen asked with a small smile.

Briseis frowned. "Not so much, no."

"I do not think it is broken… sprained, perhaps. But nonetheless, it would be best to keep your weight off of it for a few days."

"I don't think we have that luxury," Briseis whispered, looking around the camp. Helen's gaze followed hers and they sat in silence for a long time, listening to the strained silence around them with the single hope that they might hear the voices of their loved ones, waking them up from this nightmare. No voice came. Then, suddenly, Helen placed her head in her hands, her shoulders shaking with silent sobs. Briseis reached for her and wrapped her arms around her. "Shh," she whispered. "Calm down."

"It's all my fault," Helen whispered. "All my fault…"

Briseis felt guilt curl through her mouth. "Oh, Helen," she sighed, wanting so badly to give into the tears herself. She pushed Helen's face up, wiling her to look up at Briseis. Helen closed her eyes, letting two tears fall through her eyelashes. "I should never have come here. I knew it would spell disaster upon Troy, that the Gods would curse us, but I-I—"

"Yes, you should not have come here," Briseis replied calmly. Helen opened her eyes, her lips parting in surprise. Briseis took a deep breath and continued, "Yes, the Gods have cursed us, but they would have cursed us no matter what we had done. Their decision had been made long before we were even born." Helen shook her head, covering her eyes with a hand. "Fate is a bittersweet acquaintance, Helen," Briseis continued, leaning towards her slightly. "Once written, nothing we wish or do can change it. The truth is, Gods themselves forge our actions. And yet, we are the ones who must bear their consequences."

Helen dropped her hand and looked off to the side, her brow wrinkled with pain. "So much grief and suffering… so many lives lost—why would the Gods do this to us?"

Briseis leaned her head back against the rock and closed her eyes. Her mind seemed to rush backward through time, far away from the cold clearing to the warm insides of a tent not too long ago. She remembered the magical glint of the fire in his eyes as he looked at her with that very slight smile of his. _Shall I tell you a secret?_ Those words—the way he had looked at her—they had robbed her lungs of every last ounce of breath. She had stared at him, suddenly so afraid of the warrior before her.

"The Gods envy us, Helen," she said, seeing him speak the words to her. She opened her eyes and realized there were tears in them. She let them roll down her cheeks. "They envy us because we're mortal. Because every moment could be our last."

(0) 

"Briseis."

She frowned, hearing the whisper. More of a thought, really. She could not see—there was darkness pressing in on all sides of her. A cold wind swept over her, making her shiver. She moaned softly.

She knew that voice. Her eyes snapped open so suddenly that they were blinded by the light surrounding her. She shut them tightly again, then blinked. Soon, they widened upon the hazes of blue and silver light illuminating the night around her. She blinked furiously, turning her head this way and that in search of the person who had spoken to her. Her body felt extremely heavy, but light at the same time. It was as though she was floating in mid-air, but her muscles were stiff and burdensome. There was a low ringing in her ears mixed with what sounded like the wind… but the air around her seemed far too still to allow a breeze.

"_Briseis_…"

She knew that voice… "Achilles!" She called out. Her voice rung around her as though she had shouted the name from the bottom of a very large valley. "Achilles!"

She felt his hand on her shoulder and whirled around. She was frozen for the longest time, seeing him stand before her. His golden hair glinted brighter than it ever had before, despite the dimness of the world around them. His eyes twinkled with the blue and silver lights around them and his smile—the wonderful smile that had warmed her and protected her during those horrible nights—it was on his face, warm as ever. She jumped forward, wrapping her arms around him fiercely. She felt him hug her back tenderly. The dam broke inside her and the tears streamed out. She sobbed against his chest, so glad to be here finally. So glad to see him, feel him—just to be with him. "I-I thought I had lost you," she sobbed, her body shaking with emotion. "I thought—Achilles!"

"Shh," he whispered, resting his chin on her head. He tightened his grip around her, gently rubbing his hand up and down her back. "It's all right, Briseis."

"No," she pressed her cheek against his chest, pressed herself into him with a longing to be consumed by him. "I thought… oh, it was horrible thought, Achilles! I thought you were gone—" she looked up into his eyes, pleading him—begging him—to wipe the doubt from her mind, to ensure her he was here with her again.

As though reading his mind, he said, "Shh… I'm here now, Briseis."

"B-But the arrows—" she pulled away and looked down, her hands feeling for the wounds, but her hands fell on empty air. She froze. "W-wha—?" She looked up at his face, feeling something terrible fist around her insides. She could see him… she felt him, but he was not there? She closed her eyes, shaking her head slightly. He was there—his face, his body… but he wasn't there… Like solid smoke that one could capture in their hands but which escaped their grip as quickly as they capture it. There was an unshakable haze in her mind—something that _should_ make sense but didn't, a familiar memory on the brink of being forgotten. "What's going on?" She whispered.

"Briseis," he took a hold of her chin and pulled her face up. When she opened her eyes, she saw the worry in his eyes and in the grim line of his lips. Suddenly, something clicked inside her mind. Her eyes widened as she slowly looked to her left, then to her right. The blue and silver hazes flickered in and out of focus long enough for her to see what they truly were—

She gasped, feeling as though she had jumped into a lake and had breathed in a lungful of ice-cold water. Her mouth opened to scream, but only short gasps of breath came out.

"No, Briseis, look at me… look at me, love."

Briseis turned back to him. "I-I'm in—I'm in the—"

He nodded slowly. "Underworld. You're in the Underworld."

She gulped, unable to control her ragged breath. Her eyes darted to her left and right. Her body was tense against her surroundings. "Am I d-dead?"

"No," Achilles replied, his hands roaming up and down her arm in a comforting manner. She shook her head slowly, that wonderful joy she had felt only seconds ago slipping away like sands in an hourglass.

"But… _you're_ dead," she whispered the words, willing them not to be true. She looked up to see him nod. For the longest time, she could not make sense of that simple gesture. Or the sadness in his eyes, or the sadness in her own heart. Finally, she nodded back, taking a long, shaky breath.

"Don't be afraid," he whispered.

"Of you, my lord?" she replied with a short laugh. "I'm the only girl in Troy who can say I am not afraid of the great Achilles."

He smiled, laying a hand against her cheek. She shuddered, closing her eyes. She didn't know how she had gotten here, or why she was here, but she was beyond eternally grateful to feel his warmth one last time. She leaned towards him subconsciously, letting him hold her once again. "Why are you leaving me, Achilles?" She asked, choking on a sob. "Why _did_ you leave me?"

He didn't reply for a long time, then sighed. "These men around us, Briseis… they're my demons. They're my past enemies—my friends and brothers. They're every single man I have ever killed in my life."

Briseis looked up.

"I owed them," he told her. "I owed them so much more than just my life." He looked around, a soft smile on his lips. "They have been waiting for me, Briseis. They welcomed me with open arms as I traveled the Styx. I repay my debts now, but I could not be happier anywhere else in this good world. The only thing—" He looked at her, his eyes sad once more. "If I could have done one thing differently, I would never have entered the temple of Apollo that day. I would never have brought this pain upon you—"

"Spare me your regrets, Achilles," Briseis cut him off. "For I have none myself. If meeting you brings about another Trojan war, a million more battleships or whatever the Gods decide as a punishment, I would walk into your camp again without a second thought."

"I always knew you were royalty."

"And I always knew you were a dumb brute."

A grin split across his face. Unable to help herself, Briseis grinned back through her tears. She reached up to brush a golden curl off his forehead. Her entire face was shaking with effort to keep her emotions at bay. "I-I'll miss you."

"We will see each other again," Achilles replied, capturing her hand in his and pressing it to his lips. "And in the meantime, I want you to promise me something, Briseis. Promise me that you will live your life. Everyday that I watch over you, I want to know that you are happy. I regret so many things in my life, Briseis, and I couldn't bear to see you unhappy—"

"No," she cut him off. "I'll never be unhappy, Achilles, not as long as your child is with me."

Achilles blinked. Briseis saw a glint of a tear in his eye as he looked down, then up at her again. He smiled, his head tipping slightly to one side as he looked at her. She took his face in her hands and kissed him. All his strength and courage gave away to complete joy as he wrapped his arms around her tightly and crushed her to himself. Tears filled Briseis's eyes as she clung to him. "Thank you," he whispered, pressing his forehead against hers. She choked a sob down, feeling his warmth engulf her like a blanket. "Thank you."

His arms loosened around her waist… his lips rubbed against hers softly one last time. She shut her eyes tightly, feeling him slip away bit by bit until all that was left was his wonderful warmth, protecting her in the bitter wind. His voice faded, his touch faded, but his warmth remained.

And she could still feel his warmth as she opened her eyes slowly, letting the dream fade into the darkness of the night.

(0) 

TWENTY YEARS LATER…

Briseis awoke with a start. The sounds of clashing swords rang through the air from nearby. She searched her vicinity for their source, "Not again," she muttered, rising to her feet and walking around the tree she had fallen asleep against. She set off into the trees before her. The sounds of swords became louder and louder as she went further into the trees until finally—

"Ha—gotcha'!"

Briseis jumped. "Scamandrius, what are you doing?"

The young man looked up, surprised. In his moment of weakness, his opponent kicked aside his sword and jumped up from the ground. "Thank you, mother," the young woman grinned, her eyes glinting with the reflection of her sword. She charged forward, rising her sword high in the air.

Scamandrius blocked her blow swiftly and jumped backwards over a fallen tree branch. He brought up his sword to block another attack. At the same time, his foot locked beneath the fallen branch and kicked it up straight towards his opponent's chin. With a grunt, she somersaulted backwards just in time and the branch fell to the ground again. Scamandrius laughed and leaned back against a tree, watching her.

"Pyrrha! Dru, stop this at once!"

"Aunt, stay out of this," Dru replied, pushing off the tree and swinging his sword with an expert ease at his side. In front of him, Pyrrha stood with a sigh, her hand on her hip.

"Careful, Dru, that is my mother you are speaking to."

"Pyrrha, put down your sword."

"Yes, Pyrrha," Dru grinned. "Put down your sword, you might as well give up now."

"Giving up is not in my bloodline," Pyrrha replied. Suddenly, lifted her sword and began to jump forward when—

"Stop! Immediately!"

As one, both voices sighed with exasperation.

"Mother!"

"Aunt Briseis!"

Briseis looked at both of them, the finality of her statement clearly shown in her stance. Secretly, however, she could not have been happier to find her daughter and her nephew in this clearing. It was true that their 'sword-training' antics nearly drove her out of her mind with worry, but who could complain when the two most important people in her world had formed such a strong bond of friendship?

"We need to go back home. Andromache is doubtless waiting for us."

(0) 

Scamandrius, son of Hector and rightful heir to the throne of Troy had seen much death in the twenty summers of his life. Forced to scatter from his own kingdom with his people when he was barely two years old, his life had been marred with bloody raids and cruel deaths. He had witnessed the death of his dearest friend, Peleus, at the hands of a six-foot-four warrior with grotesque, blood-covered tree trunks for arms. Peleus had been ten at the time of his death. Scamandrius still saw his face in his dreams to this day. So, at the tender age of twelve, Scamandrius had become wholly aware that Death would forever be his sadistic companion in his life. Death… whose storm cloud hovered over him day and night. He lived everyday knowing that this faithful companion of his was waiting for him. In his mind, his prophecy was written and delivered—he would fulfill a destiny of greatness and glory, but in the end, mortality would rear its ugly head and claim him for itself at an early age.

He didn't think he was afraid of his own mortality, really. Death was nothing to be afraid of. One lives and lives and one day, his heart shall stop and his breath shall fade and he will be no more. He will be nothing… and what is there to fear in _nothing_? No, Scamandrius was not afraid of Death. He was afraid of Life. He was afraid of his unknown destiny, of what he would gain at the end of his life… and what he would lose. He was afraid of this uncertainty he felt everyday, knowing he was wasting time in hiding, knowing that as Death looms over his head, something else looms just before him. Where Death is in his plain sight, that _something else_… he did not know what else to feel but fear at his own fate. And what scared him the most was the fates of those whose lives were already woven through his, those that he loved.

Now, as he held his mother's bloody hand in his, that same fear threatened to consume him. "Mother," he whispered, his voice shaking uncontrollably. "P-Please—"

"Scamandrius," Andromache whispered, a pained smile drawn upon her lips. Her face, like the rest of her body, was covered in a rusty combination of blood and dirt. Sweat beaded her forehead from the heat of the flames cackling around them. Her body trembled in her son's arms as her soul fought to be free from it. She was on the doorstep to the Underworld, and there was nothing Scamandrius could do about it.

Suddenly, she gagged, a spurt of blood trickling down the side of her cheek. Scamandrius's eyes widened—mirrored images of his mother's eyes. "No—" he whispered. He looked down where a slick wound at her side revealed torn flesh and splintered bone. The world seemed to fall silent around them as her body convulsed violently. Scamandrius's eyes searched her face, searched for the unwavering guidance he had always received from her. He didn't know what to do… For all his bravado and all the toughening of his heart, he simply did not know what to do as he sat there in the suffocating silence and heat, watching the horror in his mother's eyes.

"Astyanax," Andromache choked on her final breath. The next second, he felt her collapse in his arms. The air rushed out of his body as though someone had thumped him in the back. He watched as her head fell back and, as though moving against the current of water, he brought up his hand to catch it.

Scamandrius cupped the side of her face, staring mutely at her glazed brown eyes. He brushed back her matted hair from her forehead, his hand trembling. His lips formed the word '_mother_' once more without a sound.

"Dru!" Pyrrha screamed behind him. Her voice echoed in his ears with no affect. He let his forehead drop to his mother's lips, expecting the tears to hit him at any time, but they didn't. His mind was horridly blank, unable to command any part of his body to move—not his arms, not his lungs, not even an eyelash. Somewhere above him, he thought he heard thunder.

"Dru, for Zeus's sake!" He felt someone shove him backwards. Suddenly, the world resumed its terrible existence around him, bringing with it the sounds of the fire burning across the roof above his head and screams somewhere in the distance. He blinked several times, the smoke from the flames stinging his eyes… or perhaps those were the tears he had been waiting for. He was not sure.

In front of him, Pyrrha was looking at Andromache, her hands cupping either side of her face. He saw her face tighten with realization. "S-She's dead," he told her nonetheless. He felt as though he had to tell someone... or _ask_ someone. "Isn't she?"

Pyrrha looked up at him, her eyes perplexed. "Come on, we need to get out of here. Can you lift her?"

Without waiting for an answer, she placed an arm below Andromache's neck and the other below her knees and lifted her upwards with a soft grunt. Scamandrius rose to his feet with her as though his hands were connected to his mother's body. Together, they carried Andromache out of the burning building as though in a dream.

"We have to find my mo—Briseis." Pyrrha gulped, her eyes wandering around the black hills outside. They stayed far away from his. "Can you carry Andromache?"

He didn't reply, forcing her to turn to him. "Scamandrius!" She shouted. "Can you carry her?"

"Yes," he replied, his body snapping to reality at her raised voice. He felt her arms slip out from underneath his mother's body, hesitant at first to make sure he could keep his word. His arms felt heavy as did all of his limb, but his mother was not a burden.

"Mother!" Pyrrha reached for the dagger strapped to the belt of her robes and pulled it out with a clear ring.

"Pyrrha!" The call came back from behind the burning building. Scamandrius followed Pyrrha as she ran towards her mother's voice. Before them was a second burning building… and a third and so many more beyond that. Residents were fleeing down the streets, clutching blankets and babes to their chest as their homes burned to ashes behind them. Chasing them were dark men with gleaming armor and swords, their laughter echoing sadistically. Suddenly, a man jumped before Pyrrha, a bark of triumph erupting from his filthy mouth. A second voice rang out behind Scamandrius who whirled around to face the man with a growl in his throat.

Two swords swung through the air on either side of his head. Scamandrius ducked and straightened quickly, sending his booted foot straight to the man's groin before he could so much as end the path of his swords through the air. The swords fell to the ground as he doubled over, clutching his belly. With a grunt, Scamandrius kicked him beneath his chin and sent him flying backwards. When he turned around, it was to find Pyrrha tugging her dagger out of her own enemies' heart.

"Mother!" She shouted, running down the street between the burning houses.

"Aunt Briseis!" Scamandrius joined her, turning around as his eyes searched for his aunt through the chaos. Suddenly, he heard something crash and whirled around to see his aunt's body sprawled on the ground over the broken pieces of a wooden door. She groaned, curling onto her side. Before her, a large man with grizzly brown hair matted with blood stepped out of the nearest burning house, a sneer upon his face. The next second, he gasped as a dagger embedded itself cleanly in his throat.

Pyrrha ran to her mother's aid, helping her to her feet.

"I'm all right," Briseis gasped, wiping blood from her lip with the back of her hand.

"Stay here," Pyrrha told her running towards the man she had just killed to retrieve her dagger. She picked up his own sword and turned towards the other men further down the street.

"Pyrrha, no!" Briseis cried out a little too late as her daughter charged towards them.

"Aunt!" Scamandrius rushed to her side. "Take care of mother," he told her, placing Andromache's body beside her. He dropped a kiss on her forehead and took a hold of the hilt of his sword at his side.

Three hours later, a red son rose from the horizon upon Apollo's chariot, its bleak beams falling upon a ruined landscape. Wisps of toxic smoke rose eerily from piles of ashes and charred remains of what were once homes. The whimpering voices of survivors could be heard as they searched for loved ones and precious possessions in the destruction. The streets were strewn with piles of dead bodies, some covered with dirty armors, some barely covered at all by scraps of burnt and torn clothing. Among the chaos, Scamandrius and Pyrrha stood, panting, their slick hands meekly holding blades at their sides.

"Another city," Pyrrha sighed. "And more innocents."

Scamandrius felt the bitter taste of guilt and hatred in his mouth as he dropped his swords and ran towards the figure of his Aunt Briseis huddling over Andromache. As he neared them, he saw the tears on Briseis's face as she gently rocked her cousin's dead body. He stopped several feet away, all energy draining from his body suddenly. He dropped to his knees with a sigh. Pyrrha walked past him and leaned next to Andromache's body. She laid a hand on her forehead. "She will forever rest in peace in our memories," she said.

Scamandrius's jaw tightened as he looked at his mother's lifeless face once more.

"She deserves a proper burial," Briseis replied, her voice remarkably steady. "We must go to Aeolis before more men come."

"No."

Both Pyrrha and Briseis looked up at Scamandrius with surprise, but his eyes were on the rising sun far beyond them. "She is the queen of Troy. She will be buried in Troy."

"What?" Briseis whispered. "Have you gone mad, Scamandrius?"

"Too long have we been running from city to city, Aunt Briseis," he replied, a bite of conviction to his voice. "Too long have we been cowering from men who should fear _us_, who should be serving _us_, the rightful kings of Troy. For twenty years they have chased us, fueled by our weakness and submission. We will no longer allow them the luxury."

"What are you suggesting?" Briseis asked him.

Scamandrius looked at her, his lips pursed into a thin line. "It is time we take back what is ours."


	3. Chapter 1

**Thanks so much for the reviews, you guys! It definitely made me want to write the story even more. But unfortunately, school's about to start, and I don't know how well I can keep promises, so I'm warning you right now that there will be delays in chapter-posting. I will try to be as fast as possible in writing my story, but just stick with me? Please? D And keep reviewing 'cuz there's nothing that makes me write more like a good review!**

**Oh, and I thought I should just say a couple more things about the story: a) There's nothing between Scamandrius and Pyrrha except for really, _really_ good friendship bordering on sibling-ness, and b) the story might not be very Greek-esque since I'm not really sure how ancient Greeks were, so they're being modeled more after the rich and mighty of the old-English. It shouldn't be too problematic... actually, it shouldn't be problematic at all, but I thought I'd just put that out there. Enjoy!**

**Chapter One**

The history of Troy, capitol city of the kingdom of Troad, is little known to most men. Its marvelous exports of fine silk and massive walls of unwavering defense were legendary long before the Trojan War, but no man knew their origins. Centuries ago, young Dardanus, son of the great God Zeus and the Pleiad Electra, traveled to the banks of what was to form a great nation and married the beautiful daughter of King Teucer. He settled his kingdom near the protection of Mount Ida and ruled it with tender care to all those beneath him and faithful respect to those above. Upon his death, his grandson Tros gained his kingdom and named it Troad and its people the Trojans. His son Ilus was the one to have found the city of Troy, first named after himself as Ilium.

However, the strength of the great kingdom of Troad was soon put to a test. Unable to keep promises made to the Gods and the mighty hero Heracles, Troy brought upon itself a battle that ended with a death of most of its royalty. Desperate and broken, the people of Troy turned to the only survivor of the royal family, young Priam, who took the throne and repaid the country's debts after much struggle and strife. He was the first to understand and fear the true wrath the Gods could possess and he devoted his soul to their service, swearing never to doubt them again. At the brink of the second war waged against Troy, however, he forgot the strength of Mankind in the face of his fear of the Gods. He placed his trust not in his sons, but rather in the Sun god Apollo, who had long abandoned his kingdom in boredom. His cries were lost to the Gods' ears as he watched the death of his eldest son, Hector, the destruction of his kingdom, and the glint of metal as his breath was swiftly removed from his body by the blade of his enemy.

"And now, the Greeks have come to the rescue of Troy," the young maiden said to the crowd before her, her twinkling eyes roaming over her mesmerized audience. At the far end of the group, she spotted the two burly soldiers who shared a proud grin as they heard her story. "And what a rescue they have come to," she drew out the words like a tantalizing spell, her accent trilling with mystery and magic.

"Aye, that we have," one of the soldiers replied, leaning back against the stone walls of the marketplace.

"But do you have the wisdom our forefather's lacked, my proud soldier?" she asked him with a quirk of her dark eyebrow. His eyes darkened into a scowl and she smiled. "For without it, you shall surely make the same mistakes as they had."

"Fear not, dawl," the other soldier chuckled, thumping his friend on the back. "'Twill take the Gods themselves to contradict our great King's rule. And as you have said yourself, the Gods have long abandoned Troy."

"Hmm," she shrugged, jumping down from the goods cart she had been sitting on. The crowd before her began to disperse, the magic of the moment broken by the call of reality and their daily work. The blacksmith spat on the ground and returned to his humble abode to play with fire and metal once more; the flower girl placed her basket against the curve of her waist and called out to the young men of the city, a tantalizing offer to her words; and the children began running through the streets again, discussing the marvelous tale they had just heard with wide eyes as their mothers ran after them. The story-teller straightened her skirts, patting dust off them demurely as she watched the soldiers approach her out of the corner of her eye. But before they could tower over her, a young girl jumped between them, her eyes glinting with enthusiasm.

"What is your name?" She asked the storyteller who looked back at her with surprise mixed with not a little annoyance.

"Deidamia," was the answer.

"I am Maia," the young girl replied.

The storyteller stepped back slightly and looked at the girl up and down. She seemed barely out of her childhood, with a soft, pale face, bright blue eyes and thick waves of chestnut hair beneath the dark hood of her cloak. Her clothes were moderately rich, clasped upon her shoulders with small, twinkling brooches, and her feet were clad in soft slippers. Deidamia noticed that behind her, the guards had stopped in their tracks and were looking at each other, slightly perplexed. She nodded curtly to the girl and turned away.

"I heard your story about the history of Troy," Maia said hurriedly, placing her hand upon the other's shoulder. "You were very enchanting!"

Deidamia turned back to her with a smile. "It is what I do."

"I absolutely love hearing stories about Troy, as does my father. Will you please join us for dinner and tell us more stories?"

"I'm afraid I really do not have the time," Deidamia replied with a gentle smile. "Perhaps some other evening."

"Please," Maia interrupted her as she was about to turn away again.

Deidamia sighed, quite annoyed now. "You seem like a wealthy girl, Maia. What business do you have with fantasy stories about kings and gods?"

"But they are not fantasy," Maia replied, her voice full of uncontrolled excitement. "They are stories of our forefathers, just like you said—be they kings or gods. They are the men that built this place—"she waved to the busy crowd and the gentle structures around them, "What can they be other than my own business?"

"You speak well," Deidamia said, folding her hands beneath her bosom. "Who—"

"Princess Maia," one of the guards suddenly interrupted them, directing a short bow towards the girl. Deidamia froze, recognizing the girl suddenly. How could she have missed it? "We must return to the castle."

"Yes, yes," Maia waved him aside, her attention still focused on Deidamia. "Please promise you will grace us with your presence and your stories soon?"

Deidamia looked from her to the guard at her side who looked slightly put off by his charge's hasty dismissal of him. She smiled towards Maia again. "This evening?"

"Yes!" Maia jumped, her face brightening with a wide smile. She clasped Deidamia's hands in hers and shook them quickly. "Thank you, so much! I cannot wait to hear your tales tonight."

With another flash of white teeth, she turned around, took a hold of her cloak to hold it over her heels, and walked away with the two guards trailing behind her. Deidamia watched her leave, taking a deep breath. Slowly, a small smile played upon her lips at her first victory. Tonight, she would be the guest at the Trojan keep. Tonight, she would meet the Trojan king.

(0)

King Orestes of Troy sat upon his throne in a decidedly frustrated stance. His eyes were covered by one of his thick hands heavily decorated with shining golden rings, and his other hand was drumming an impatient rhythm on the arm of the throne. Before him, his man-in-command kneeled on the ground, reading his report to his king with a will of stone. Inside, however, he could practically feel his king's wrath as though Orestes was wielding a sword to his throat.

"None of the men returned, my lord. I have sent out scouts to search the city, but I am afraid we have not been able to find our targets."

"Remind me again, Adrastus, how many men did I have you send?" Orestes asked from beneath his hand.

His commander took a deep breath and replied, "Thirty-seven strong, my lord."

"And how many targets did they have?"

"Two."

"Two," Orestes repeated, finally dropping his hand. There was a frightful viciousness in his red eyes that made Adrastus wish he could look away but he held his gaze steadily. "One woman, and one boy. Are you telling me that my soldiers are so incompetent that they were unable to defeat an old woman and a boy barely out of his childhood? Are you telling me that you have let my men become so weak?"

Orestes's voice was dangerously calm as he posed the questions. Adrastus gulped and dropped his gaze to the steps leading up to his king's throne. Suddenly, he saw Orestes rise to his feet and send his hand flying towards him. Adrastus fell to the ground with a grunt, feeling his jaw throb where the jewelry on Orestes's hand had cut through his skin. He gingerly pressed his fingers to the wound and pulled them away to find blood glistening on their tips.

"You have done nothing but disappoint me, Adrastus," Orestes snarled as he loomed over him. "I ask but a simple task of you and you could not even have that done!"

"My lord, I have already sent my men to the next city," Adrastus replied calmly. "One way or another, we will find them."

"When?" Orestes snarled. "After I have been overthrown from my kingdom, brought down from my reign? Perhaps you are unaware of this, Adrastus, but a curse rides upon my neck and when I fall, so do you!"

"Father," a voice spoke out to their right. A young man stepped from the shadows, his bronzed skin in stark contrast to the pale tunic upon his shoulders. His liquid brown eyes—so much like his father's—roamed over the cowering form of Adrastus with not a single hint of emotion in them, then returned to his father's. "Let me go search for them."

"No," Orestes waved him aside, turning back to his throne with an impatient sigh. "You will not go anywhere."

"But I can find them for you!" Tisamenus protested, stepping forward urgently. "I can bring them back and throw them at your feet where they belong. Father, you know I can."

"Tisamenus, not now," Orestes replied, falling into his throne again as his eyes searched the room for his next move as though expecting the idea to pop out of thin air.

"Why not?" Tisamenus replied, stepping towards him. He placed a hand on his father's, leaning forward to make the most of his words. "You know what is being said through the kingdom, father. Too long have these lands fell to despair with no constant support from their rulers. For the past twenty years, men have been quick to snatch the power of this very throne and just as quick to fall to ruins. There is a curse on us, father, and there is only one way to lift this curse."

"Do you think I do not know that?" Orestes replied, glaring into his son's eyes. "I know what I must do, Tisamenus, it is you who forget your duty."

Tisamenus frowned, stepping back slightly. His father placed a hand on his shoulder and squeezed it. "I need you, my son, to take this throne after my death. This—this _curse_ everyone speaks about is first and foremost a trick to scare the kings of Troy, but we are smarter than them. We shall prove to the people of Troy how powerful we are. We will show them that we are not afraid of any curses and we will show them that we know how to deal with impudence! But we will not let this throne slip from our bloodline!"

Tisamenus looked away, his jaw tightening with the knowledge that this was an argument he would not win.

"No matter what, we will find those bloody sons of Troy. Do you hear me?"

Tisamenus nodded and his father continued. "That Lady Andromache lives on somewhere, proudly waving her bloody son under our noses in reminder of the fact that the true heir of Troy lives on, but we will not let her triumph. I will be the king of Troy whether she likes it or not—whether the Trojans like it or not, but I cannot claim this throne until I know I will have an heir to inherit it after me."

"I will, father," Tisamenus replied. "But—"

"No," Orestes shook his head, letting go of his shoulder and slumping back against his throne. "There is nothing more to be discussed. We will send more men—hundreds and thousands of them, but you—not you."

Tisamenus stared at his father, a foul taste in his mouth. Finally, he whirled around and walked away, his hands fisted at his side. Orestes watched the young man leave, then sneered. "Fool of a boy," he whispered.

"My lord?" Adrastus, having risen to his feet, stepped forward cautiously, his head bowed slightly.

Oresetes did not look at him, but continued to look towards the corridor to his left. "He thinks that if he can find the wench, Andromache, and her son, he will be able to claim the throne for himself."

Adrastus turned his head sharply, his eyes widening upon his king. Orestes finally turned to him, a foul expression on his face. "What? You think I am wrong?"

"Of course not," Adrastus replied.

Orestes nodded. "I will not give _anyone_ the chance to steal my throne from me. Especially not my own son."

Adrustus bowed his head again, not daring to voice his opinion that his son loved him very much and would never think to commit such a malicious act. Having trained the boy himself since a very young age, he knew that Tisamenus held Orestes in the highest respect and only wished to serve him to the end. Adrustus was only afraid that Tisamenus had lost his sense of right and wrong in his reverence for his father. He was willing to go to any extreme for Orestes, be it good or evil… a trait that seemed to run through blood from father to son. Tisamenus had inherited it from Orestes, and Orestes from the great Agamemnon whose tales crawled through the streets of the city upon terrified whispers even now, twenty years after his death.

"Well, what are you doing just standing here?" Orestes broke through his thoughts. "Find that bitch and soon, or it will be your head I shall be wanting next!"

"Yes, my lord," Adrastus gave a short bow and turned to leave when a messenger entered the room dressed in bright red livery of Troy.

"My lord," he called out, his eyes staring blankly into space as he stood with a stiff back facing the king. "There is a man wishing to speak to you. He claims to be a soldier in his Lordship's service, and says he bears news that would greatly please you."

Orestes humphed. "Send him in."

The messenger gave a curt bow and left the room through the sheer curtains covering the East Entrance of the Throne room. Moments later, a young man, barely older than Tisamenus, walked in through the same doorway.

Adrustus frowned as he took in the man's chiseled features and strong frame. He wore spotless armor over his broad shoulders, decorated with the red cloak of the Trojans. His thick brown hair fell lightly framed his face, almost glowing red in the sunlight streaming through the windows on either side of the. What startled Adrustus about the man, though, were his piercing brown eyes staring straight towards Orestes like unsheathed daggers. There was something so familiar about him…

"_You_ are a soldier in _my_ army?" Orestes gave a short bark of laughter. "How old are you, boy?"

"Old enough," the man replied, crossing his arms over his chest. With his legs spread slightly beneath him and his chin tipped a notch into the air, he might as well have been the king of Troy for all his grace.

Adrustus's eyes narrowed. "I do not recognize you," he said to him.

"I am new, commander," the man replied simply without bothering to remove his eyes from Orestes. Adrustus turned towards his king, unsure of what to make of the boy.

"What is your name?" Orestes asked slowly, his gaze suspicious upon the man's face.

After a short pause, the man replied. "Astyanax."

"Astyanax," Orestes repeated, nodding thoughtfully. "What news do you bring me, Astyanax?"

"The news you have been waiting for, my lord. Queen Andromache of the Trojans is dead."

Adrustus turned his head towards Astyanax so fast that he felt a sharp pain down the side of his neck. Behind him, Orestes sat up sharply in the throne, his attention effectively captured by the young soldier. Astyanax, however, seemed unaffected by their response.

"Dead?"

He nodded. "I bring her body with me."

"And… the boy?"

"Also dead," Astyanax replied. "He burned to ashes in the raid, but I have the royal medallion as my proof."

"Ha!" Orestes laughed, clapping his hands together. He rose to his feet and walked towards Astyanax with open arms. "That is good news," he told him, taking a hold of his shoulders with unveiled pride on is face, "very good news indeed!" Then, he stepped back and stretched his hand forward, baring the royal ring of ruby.

Astyanax looked down at the ring slowly, then up at Orestes as he waited expectantly. "Lord Orestes," he finally said, nodding his head respectfully. He leaned down, taking the king's hand in his, and dropped his lips to the ring for the briefest kiss. As he straightened once more, Orestes clapped his hands together and said, "Take me to the body!"

With a slow nod, Astyanax waved Orestes towards the doorway.

Adrustus watched the king leave, then approached the soldier quickly. "What regime are you under?"

Astyanax looked at him with an unreadable expression on his face. Finally, he replied, "The Trojan regime."


	4. Chapter 1 Part II

Astyanax watched as King Orestes strode down the corridor before him. He noticed that the king liked his riches. His cloak was made of the finest silk of Greece and jewelry glinted upon his body like droplets of water on a crab's many limbs. Complimenting them were his eyes—black beads of cunningness and lust for power. Astyanax was sure he had been a great warrior in his time but now, the king's hair was graying and his body was lose with lack of exercise. His arrogance, however, was obvious as ever.

They walked in complete silence down the stairs at the end of the corridor, past the East gardens decorated with perfectly-kept hedges and beautiful statues, then out the castle and into the open courtyard. Astyanax saw the two men he had spoken to previously standing next to the leaning cart, chuckling at something among themselves.

"You there!" Orestes called out to neither of them in particular. Upon hearing his voice, the men both jumped to attention, their heads bowed in respect. "Uncover the body."

One of them rushed around the cart and pulled the gray blanket from the cart. There was the body of Queen Andromache, her hair thick and tangled, her pale cream robes stained with darkened blood and dust and her body limp upon the cart's back. Yet, despite the robbery of death, her chin was still turned towards the brilliant rays of the sun, a golden glow kissing the unnatural paleness of her skin.

Astyanax's eyes followed Orestes's progress towards the cart. He could not see the man's face, but he knew there was shock on it. And excitement, now slowly turning to joy. He got close enough to the body to look into the face, then stepped away quickly, bringing his hand up to cover his abused nose. He turned around, his face twisted with disgust and walked back towards Astyanax. "How do I know that is her?"

"This was retrieved from her robes the night of her death—" Astyanax reached behind him and unsheathed the dagger hanging from his belt. He presented it to Orestes, watching his eyes widen as he recognized the dagger of Hector, great warrior and husband of Lady Andromache.

"It can't be," Orestes whispered, taking the dagger from his hands. He lifted it up into the air and squinted as the sun reflected off the brilliant gems studding the hilt. He dropped his hand again, the worry erased from his mind. But then—"And the boy! What of the boy?"

Astyanax reached for his belt again and unknotted a golden chain from it. Even before he gave it to him, Orestes shouted with glee. "'Tis the medallion! The royal medallion of Troy—" he snatched it from Astyanax's hands and turned towards Adrustus who had been watching the entire scene with silent surprise. "The medallion that Hector himself gave to his son before his final battle!"

"Yes, my lord, so it is," Adrustus wondered, his eyes upon the carved golden pendant hanging from the chain. "'Tis the gift of Apollo…"

Orestes looked down at the pendant himself and Astyanax knew what he saw—the carving of the sun with all of its tentacle-like rays studded with miniscule rubies. And on the back were the words, 'To the Lord of the City—Reign Beneath Apollo'.

"Reign beneath Apollo," Orestes grinned. "I think I just might." He looked up at Astyanax proudly. "Son, you have won me over! What do you wish for this amazing feat—ask and ye shall receive. Anything at all!"

Astyanax bowed low, laying his hand over his heart. "My only wish is to serve you, my lord."

"Ha ha!" Orestes slapped Astyanax on the back with force enough to knock him into the ground, but Astyanax stood his ground and smiled. "Marvelous, _marvelous_!" His hand still around Astyanax's shoulder, he began walking back towards the entrance to the castle. He spoke over his shoulder, "Adrustus, inform all my men—we shall be having a grand celebration tonight with lots of wine and women. Do you like wine and women, my boy?"

He didn't wait for Astyanax to reply and simply laughed. "What man doesn't like them, eh—"

"Father, there you are!"

"Ah, Maia!" Orestes strode ahead of his previous companions and opened his arms towards the young woman that was running towards him from across the East garden entrance. She held her dark brown skirts over golden slippers as the wind blew thick chestnut hair off of her tanned shoulders. She ran to her father and hugged him quickly.

"Father, I have met the most wonderful storyteller just now! Deidamia—her tales are absolutely enchanting and the way she tells them… there is nothing more mesmerizing in the world!"

"Slow down, my child," Orestes laughed, holding his daughter by the shoulders at arm's length. She grinned, stopping her rushed speech with an apologetic smile. "Now what is this you said… a _storyteller_?"

"Yes, father," Maia nodded. "A most amazing storyteller. I've invited her to join us this evening to tell us her tales."

"Excellent, we will be needing as much entertainment as possible tonight for the grand celebration, hmm?" He winked towards the two men standing behind him mutely. Adrustus nodded back.

"A celebration?" Maia replied. She looked towards Astyanax with curious eyes, then turned back to her father. "What is the occasion?"

"Well, it—" Orestes began, but then caught himself quickly. "Ah, 'tis nothing you ought to be concerned with, my dear, just know that it brings your father great joy. Great joy indeed! Now meet Astyanax, a brave soldier in my ranks—"

Maia turned to Astyanax with a polite smile. He bowed slightly, "Lady Maia."

Maia nodded back. "I have a feeling that you are a key reason for the celebration tonight, Astyanax," she said to him. "And for that, I must thank you."

"'Tis my king that is the key reason for celebration tonight, my lady," he replied. "I am but forever in his service."


	5. Chapter II

The kingdom of Troy was in the midst of a strange twist of fortune. Its citizens had begun the day as they had any other—waking to the shrill call of the rooster, the wives cleaning their homes meticulously and the husbands setting off into the city with minds systematically returning to the labor awaiting them. As every single day before, there was that tired tension pushed far into the back of the citizen's minds, rarely thought of but still existent. It was the knowledge of the curse upon their kingdom which had thwarted their hope of ever having a good king to protect them from the countless battles they faced. It was also the heavy burden they bore for their current, slaving away under merciless Apollo to fulfill the taxes forced upon them.

But by the turn of fate, the tension seemed to have snapped, giving way to over joyous celebration. News traveled like wildfire among them—the dowager queen of Troy, the Lady Andromache who had been missing so long from their lives and memories, had been brought back to the kingdom dead, along with her son. Surely the Gods held no more bitterness against them? Surely they had corrected the mistakes they had allowed to slip long ago?

Lights were thrown into the streets, illuminating the joyous crowd with tenfold brilliance. Laborers, commoners, beggars, men, women, children, and even pet animals seemed to be singing and laughing and dancing around the streets without a care in the world. And in the castle of Troy was an even more exuberant display. The king's throne room had been decorated with blemish-less tapestries and flowing silk curtains in a single brilliant shade of red. The entire room glowed like the insides of a fireplace with the light of the many torches falling upon the red décor. Soldiers of all ages and all sizes were stuffing themselves with food and wine, laughing at nothing and everything. They yelled across the great throne room to serving wenches as they flirtatiously moved through them, carrying plate after golden plate of drinks and bread. Their drunken king sat in his throne, his arm thrown around a young dancer who looked beyond ecstatic at the sudden attention she seemed to be receiving from him. His loud, bark-like laughter could be heard halfway down the kingdom as he joked and cajoled his people. 

But Astyanax's eyes were glued to the storyteller seated upon a cleared table, one bare leg crossed seductively over the other, as a wondrous tale about the Apple of Discord fell empty upon the ears of the lustful men surrounding her. He watched as one of them moved toward her, unstable upon his feet, and offered her a drink of wine from his cup. He leaned forward, whispering something in her ear. She laughed and pushed him away.

_Look here_, Astyanax thought, his eyes narrowing on her. _Look at me!_

Her eyes rose to his from across the room, the smile frozen on her lips. But before he could do anything, they turned away, falling upon another soldier, this one much younger than the first. He was sitting on one knee, a rather dreamy look in his eyes as he spoke something to her. This time, the entire crowd burst out laughing and the boy turned a deep shade of red. The storyteller tsked and drew her fingers lightly across the boy's cheek.

"Do not scowl so much, warrior, you are sticking out like a sore thumb in all this gaiety." 

Astyanax turned towards the voice and managed to pull a smile onto his face despite the burning of his body. "Lady Maia."

She smiled at him, a warming gesture that revealed a set of perfect white teeth. "You're not enjoying yourself?"

"What makes you say that?" he asked, watching her over the rim of his cup as he took a sip of wine. 

"You're staring across the room as though you would like to do murder. Now, I understand that my father is very particular about hardening his soldiers in battle and having them crave blood and all, but I highly doubt you are meant to feel so all the time."

"I assure you, I had no intentions of dampening tonight's spirits with bloodshed," he replied, his eyes dropping to the blood-red wine swirling softly inside the goblet in his hand. 

"Is that a promise for tonight… or a threat for tomorrow?"

Astyanax grinned, surprised she had caught his particular choice of the word 'tonight'. "I do hope my lady does not believe to be such a blood-thirsty man that I would dare to utter words of violence in her presence."

"Hmm," she shrugged a shoulder, drawing his eyes to the glinting golden broach sitting upon the bare, creamy skin. He immediately forced his eyes back to her face. "You never know with soldiers. What were you looking at anyway?" She turned, frowning slightly, and looked towards the direction he had been staring at. "Ah, the storyteller! She's marvelous, isn't she? I am planning on asking father if she can take up residence in the castle and entertain all his guests during dinner. And I do love a good story myself."

She turned back to him, waiting for him to respond in the like, but he simply stared past her toward the storyteller, taking another drink from his goblet. She lifted her eyebrows slightly, as though she had just realized something. "Ah, I see…"

He slowly drew his eyes away from the woman and turned back to Maia. "You see what?"

"Why you—that is—"she cleared her throat uncomfortably, turning a deep shade of red. 

He frowned. "Are you okay—"

"I mean, it's completely fine, of course—"

"What's fine?" He waited for her to continue, wondering why she was looking everywhere except at him all of the sudden. 

She took a deep breath and said, "I understand, of course, soldiers… t-they always seem to—I mean—she's a beautiful woman and all—"

"What?" Astyanax nearly bellowed the word, feeling the back of his neck burn under the excruciating realization of what she had been thinking. "T-The storyteller? You think I want to—to—"

Maia turned an even deeper shade of red. "Oh dear… um, do you like stories, soldier?"

Astyanax simply stared at her for the longest time, still quite horrified. She looked at him, her eyes worried and desperately begging him to allow her to change the subject. Finally, he cleared his throat and leaned back against the wall, resuming his previous position with a little discomfort. He downed the rest of his wine quickly and began searching the room for another serving wench. It was during the search that he caught Maia's eye again and noticed that she was staring at him expectantly. "Um… what?"

"Do you like stories?" She asked again.

"History," he corrected her without even thinking. "They're not _stories_ she tells over there, they are the history of this kingdom and its people, being wasted on uncaring men with not but vulgarity in their minds and booze in their veins."

Maia nodded slowly, looking at him with a curious expression on her face. "But do they not deserve this moment of carelessness?" Maia asked him. "You are a soldier yourself. Can you not understand what they have been missing in their lives, spending day after day, year after year fighting for peace in this kingdom?" 

"What do you know about the life of a soldier, my lady?" He asked her with a quirk of his eyebrow. "I doubt you have seen any of the horrors of battle—even the tip of the iceberg eludes your imagination and may the Gods keep it that way."

He immediately knew by the stiffening of her back that he had said the wrong thing. Her brown eyes turned almost black as they leveled upon him. "Do not make the mistake of thinking that because I'm the princess of Troy, I have been fortunate enough to be protected from every hardship of life, Astyanax. It has been many years since grief has spared the women of this country due to the fragility of their hearts, and like you and your companions, we have also battled the curse upon our kings with a hope that we struggled to fabricate from our _imaginations_, however deprived they may be according to you. Just because we do not wield a sword, it does not mean we have no part in these battles."

"You are offended," Astyanax straightened slightly. "T'was not my intention to offend you, Lady Maia."

She looked away from him, her lips pursed as she considered his apology. Her anger seemed to precipitate into thin air at an admirable rate right before his eyes. As he watched her, somewhat amused, she turned back to him with a small smile and said, "You are forgiven."

He chuckled, nodding somewhat approvingly. "If kings possessed your ability to forgive, my lady, we would not be facing these battles today."

"I'm afraid that is not true," she sighed. "'Tis the Gods who send these battles against us, and once they decide to curse a kingdom, there is nothing its kings can do to avoid it."

"Hmm," Astyanax mused. Suddenly, he pushed himself off of the wall and extended his bent elbow towards her. She looked at it with a quirked eyebrow, then at him. "Care to walk with me? I would very much like to know more about this curse you speak of so much."

"You do not know of it?"

"I come from a very impoverished town far east of this city, my lady. News and gossip does not reach one's ears when one is so isolated from the rest of the society."

She smiled and took his arm. He dropped his goblet upon a table as they walked past it and turned back to her. "It all began with the Trojan War, actually," she began, her eyes far ahead of them, focusing at nothing. "At that time, King Priam was ruler of Troy, and he and his sons were faced with a most terrible fate indeed. All the warriors of Greece were at their doorstep, searching for the treasure that had been stolen from them—the beautiful Lady Helen, wife of Lord Menaleus. But Menaleus's brother, Lord Agamemnon had other motives. He was not there for the lady, but for the land, as he had taken it upon himself to unite the entirety of Earth under one banner. King Priam refused him, and thus began the most terrible war ever fought in the Histories."

Astyanax smiled to himself, seeing the far-away gleam of excitement in her eyes as she told him the tale. 

"It waged on for years and years, taking the lives of several thousand soldiers—both Greek and Trojan. But neither side was anywhere close to losing their cause, for the Trojans had their unbreakable walls and the strong Prince Hector. And the Greeks—are you all right?"

Astyanax cleared his throat, realizing that he every muscle in his body had tensed up upon hearing of Hector. He willed himself to relax. "Yes, yes, continue."

Maia nodded. "The Greeks had the strongest warrior even the great God of War, Ares himself had ever seen—Achilles. And so the battle continued until one day, Hector cut the throat of Achilles on the battlefield—"

"What?" Astyanax frowned at her.

"—Ah, but if only it had been that simple," she grinned. "For he soon realized that it was not Achilles he had killed, but the warrior's dear cousin. They had grown up like brothers and now, one of them was dead. So Achilles put on his fine armory and came to the gates of Troy and demanded a battle with Hector in honor of his cousin. Hector, the fine king that he was, strode straight into the lion's den and lost his life to Achilles' spear. Broken in spirit, Hector's kingdom fell to the Greek's cunning ambush. In the sacking of Troy, Achilles also lost his life.

"When the war ended, a glimmer of peace finally seemed to fall upon Troy, but only for a moment, for Ares placed a curse upon them—Troy would find no peace after the Trojan War and no king of Troy would ever last for long before death claimed the throne from them. Nobody knew what had angered Ares so—there were several theories. Some say that the Trojan War was not ended properly. They say the Greeks should have made sure that no one person from the line of Trojan royalty should have been left alive to come back and claim the throne from them. Others say Ares was furious that the war had claimed three of his best soldiers—"

"Hector, Achilles and Ajax," Astyanax finished for her, his eyes cold upon the air before them. Maia looked up at him in surprise. "You know the stories!"

"History," Astyanax corrected her again without looking back at her. 

"That's right," Maia smiled. Suddenly, she stopped in her tracks, looking around herself. "Oh, dear, it seems we've wandered quite far from the party!" 

Astyanax followed her gaze and realized that they had strolled all the way into the East gardens, mindless of where their feet were carrying them. "Yes, I suppose we have," he replied. 

"well," Maia slipped her hand out of the crook of his elbow and turned to face him. The moonlight from the clear sky above them fell on her thick chestnut curls and the gentle slopes of her face, giving her an ethereal glow. She carefully tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. 

Astyanax watched her in silence for a moment, then said, "How do _you_ know so much about Troy?"

Maia shrugged. "When I was a little girl, I liked reading the records kept in the library. When I learned about all the battles and heroes of Troy, I began asking the older citizens of the city for more details. It's amazing how sharp such a painful memory can be even after all these years."

"The library?"

"Yes," Maia told him. "It has a large collection of records from long ago. I can't seem to make sense of most of them, but—I could take you there if you wish to see it." 

"Oh, he would love to go, I'm sure… but perhaps another time."

They both turned at the new voice. "Oh, Deidamia!" Maia gasped, jumping towards her. There was a slight fluster to her voice as she looked at the storyteller. 

"My lady," Deidamia gave her a small curtsy, but her eyes returned to Astyanax's, a smile curling her lips. Maia frowned at her, then turned to Astyanax.

"O-Oh, well…" She cleared her throat. "I-I'll be returning to the party, then."

Without a backwards glance, she walked past Deidamia and up the stairs leading back to the throne room, her pace quickening more and more down the path until she was practically running as she disappeared around the bend. Astyanax stared after her, his mouth open in a silent call. "Damnation, she probably thinks—"

"What?" Deidamia asked him. Astyanax closed his mouth and sighed. 

"Never mind that. First tell me what the _hell_ you think you were doing up there!"

Deidamia scoffed, surprised at the sudden viciousness in his tone. "What am _I_ doing—what are _you_ doing strolling about the gardens with the Princess of Troy?"

"Pyrrha," Astyanax closed the distance between them with two long strides and glared down at her. "You don't know how dangerous those men are."

"More dangerous than the daughter of King Orestes?" She replied, her voice dropping into a hiss. "Before you begin acting as my big brother, think of how _your _actions will affect our plans. At least I know that my company will not put them in danger."

"I can take care of Maia," Astyanax replied. "But you can't—"

"Think twice before you finish that sentence, Dru," Pyrrha replied, matching his glare even though he was a good foot taller than her. 

"You—"

"Ah!" She cut him off. "That was only once." She turned around to leave but he caught her arm and turned her back to him.

"I'm not through," he told her. "Pyrrha, there is 'playing the _role_' and then there is 'playing the _fool_'! You don't know what these men are capable of when they have enough lust and wine coursing through their blood."

"What is _wrong_ with you?" She scoffed. "Have you forgotten that we fought them side-by-side less than a week ago? I know what is at risk in this game we are playing, Dru, but it is _you_ who needs to sort out your priorities. Now let go of my arm."

He didn't release his grip and she didn't resist. They glared at each other for a long moment before Scamandrius's gaze softened and he sighed. He pulled her to himself and wrapped his arms around her. She remained motionless in his embrace for a moment, then returned the gesture, closing her eyes. "I've lost too much already, Pyrrha," he told her. "I can't bear to imagine losing you."

"This is not about me or you, Dru," she whispered, pulling out of his arms. "This is about Andromache. This is about your father, Hector, and your kingdom. You made them both a promise." She reached up and placed her hand against his cheek. "And I will make a promise now. You will never lose me—not 'till death, and not after that either. I am willing to keep that promise. Are you willing to keep yours?"

Her clear blue eyes glinted silver in the glow of moonlight, staring straight into his soul as though she could spot every single weakness within him. Her hand slowly slipped from his cheek as she took a step back. She turned around and walked back towards the celebration, leaving Astyanax to look after her with a tight jaw. He remembered all the times they had cried together as children… and laughed together. When Pyrrha had first met the old Trojan soldier who had taken up refuge in the same town as them, she had ran home in her bare feet to tell Dru the news, and helped him convince their mothers that they absolutely _had_ to go learn swordfight from him. They had begged their mothers to allow them to leave, refusing to eat or drink for two whole days until finally, Andromache had agreed to the training and had accompanied them all the way to the soldier's home and back. He remembered another time when Pyrrha had had to say goodbye to her good friend whose family was leaving for another town far away from theirs in hopes of finding a permanent home from the madness. Andromache and Briseis had tried hard to comfort her, but it was not until she had curled next to Scamandrius that she had stopped crying. He had whispered a make-believe story to her in the dim light of the fire, telling her that their fathers had not been enemies after all—that they were secretly really good friends and they were still alive, hiding somewhere far, far away so that nobody would be able to find them. She had fallen asleep to his words.

And then he remembered something else that had occurred a lot more recently—

_Scamandrius was securing the harness upon his horses, making sure they the cart would not slip from their backs. His face was stone as he checked their shoes, loaded the front of the cart with a sack of food Briseis had wrapped them, and walked around to the back of the cart where a large gray lump lay unnaturally still in the moonlight. He licked his lips and slowly pulled back the blanket from his mother's face. _

_It wasn't until he felt Pyrrha's hand on his shoulder that he realized he had tears on his face. He wiped them away quickly, pulling the blanket back into place, and turned around. "You ready to leave?"_

_He didn't want her to say anything. He didn't want anyone to say anything to him about his mother's death because in some small corner of his mind, he refused to believe it was true. He refused to let go of his mother's loving smile and warm embrace in the hope that he just might be able to see them again. A fool's hope it may be, but wasn't hope supposed to be the most powerful thing in the human hearts? Wasn't it the one reason Pandora's demons had not destroyed the human race yet? He was willing to hold onto that small hope, no matter how foolish it may be, and he was afraid that if anyone spoke to him, that hope would fade away and he would be shoved into the bitter reality with nothing to shield him. Not his mother's smile, and not his fool's hope. _

_But Pyrrha was not like anyone else in the world. Since they were little children, she knew every thought that had passed through his mind before he did. And so, she didn't say anything. She simply wrapped her arms around his waist and hugged him for a moment. He sighed, dropping a kiss on her forehead, and turned away. "Come on, we can't afford to lose any more time than we already have," he called over her shoulder. He mounted his horse, watched as Pyrrha did the same beside him, and turned around to look back at the small hut they had found on the outskirts of the town for the past few days. Briseis stood at the door, her eyes red and puffy from crying. She gave them both a small smile and raised her hand in good-bye. _

_Scamandrius turned back to face the path ahead of them. His eyes narrowed upon it as he thought of what lay ahead. His blood began to boil as it had every time he thought of that pig King Orestes of Troy. It was time to make him pay… it was time to make them all pay. "Let's go get our Troy back," he said to himself more than anyone else._

"_Dru," Pyrrha stilled him with her hand on his upon his horse's reins. He turned to her, a questioning look in his eyes. _

_She gulped, looking down at the reins of her own horse. After a moment, she sighed and said, "You are son of Prince Hector of Troy. And I am the daughter of Achilles, the man who killed your father. So… what does that make us?"_

_Her gaze was anxious as she looked up at him again, waiting breathlessly for his answer._

"_Dear friends… till death and beyond." With a grin, he punched her in the arm and kicked his horse forward. _

"You better not leave me," he now whispered to the empty gardens. "I made more than one promise to you and I intend to keep both of them." 

With a sigh, he made to turn away when a movement caught his eyes. He frowned, squinting into the lines of dark trees far across the garden from where Maia had entered that morning. The scene was still, making his frown deeper, but just when he was about to turn away once more, he saw it again. No freak wind could make a shrubbery jump up and tip-toe across the gardens like that, he thought with a slow grin.


End file.
